


Fairytales and Flower Blooms

by rthecynic



Series: The Missing Parts of My Soul [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Athos is angsty and I'm sorry, Athos is haunted by his past, Brief Reference To Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, M/M, Soulmate AU, flower soulmate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:28:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthecynic/pseuds/rthecynic
Summary: Once upon a time, Athos had believed in love. He’d believed in fairytales and soulmates and happy ever afters. He’d heard all the stories of daring heroes and handsome princes, wicked spells and beautiful maidens, how their hearts bloomed upon receiving true love’s first kiss. He’d heard the tales and, as an innocent child, he’d believed.Except, all of it was nonsense.Part 2 of the Soulmate AU
Relationships: Athos | Comte de la Fère/Milady Clarick de Winter, Minor or Background Relationship(s), d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère
Series: The Missing Parts of My Soul [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154075
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	Fairytales and Flower Blooms

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the flower symbolism in this story is explained in more detail during "Fate Will Bring Us Home", so it's probably easier if you read that first :)

Once upon a time, Athos had believed in love. He’d believed in fairytales and soulmates and happy ever afters. He’d heard all the stories of daring heroes and handsome princes, wicked spells and beautiful maidens, how their hearts bloomed upon receiving true love’s first kiss. He’d heard the tales and, as an innocent child, he’d believed.

Except, all of it was nonsense.

He’d first begun to doubt what he’d been taught when he realised that his father’s heart had never bloomed. Here he was, married and teaching his sons about soul bonds and true love when he’d never found his own. _Duty_ , he’d told Athos when asked. _Sometimes duty takes us away from what fate had planned_.

But even then, he had been fascinated with the colourful petals that contrasted his pale skin. The soft pink of his mother’s carnation, the wilting edges of his father’s irises, the vibrant red of the hyacinth that climbed his ribs.

And there, upon his chest, resting above his heart, four unopened buds, waiting for the day when he would cross paths with the missing pieces of his soul. Perhaps he’d begun to grow slightly disillusioned with the idea of soulmates, but the notion was a romantic one and part of him still hoped that there might exist a love like that in his childhood storybooks.

When he met Anne, all of his belief disappeared.

He’d loved her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, _God_ how he’d loved her. She’d ignited a passion inside him, and he was fully under her spell. She was the blood in his veins and the air in his lungs and the very beating of his heart. She was beauty and wit and passion and fire and he would gladly have been consumed by her flame. She was like water to a man dying of thirst, like the sweetest wine to a drunkard, a guiding light in the darkness. He loved her and she loved him and suddenly the world was beautiful.

Yet, he’d never bloomed for her. Not a single flower had appeared on his body to mark her place in his life. This realisation had caused the last of his belief to shatter. Who cared what fate had planned for him when he’d found his own love and happiness right here in her? Why bother searching for a love that might never come, that might not even exist? He could make a life with Anne, make a _home_ , and it would be enough. They would be happy and no supposed “soulmate” would be able to change that.

But then she’d killed Thomas.

Thomas; his little brother, who he’d always sworn to protect. The brother who had followed him, idolised him, trusted him. Precious Thomas with whom he had played and studied and _grown_. Always bickering, always competing, yet always by each other’s side.

And Anne had taken him away.

He’d brought Anne into Thomas’ life, and he had paid dearly for it. His brother was gone, and he had no-one to blame but himself.

As he’d sat in his room that night, his once beloved wife locked in the cellar as she awaited her execution, he’d watched as the magnificent scarlet petals of his hyacinth bloom became replaced by a more subdued purple; a sign of his regret, a silent plea for forgiveness.

Forgiveness that he didn’t deserve.

~*~*~*~*~

He couldn’t bring himself to watch her die.

He hated her for what she’d done, for what she’d taken from him, but he just couldn’t watch the life leave those piercing, wonderful eyes.

She’d wronged him, betrayed him in the worst way possible, but he’d loved her once – _oh God, how he’d loved her_ – and that line between his burning love and his burning hate was so devastatingly blurred that he couldn’t seem to separate the two.

So he simply rode away.

He’d go to Paris, change his name, never look back.

But try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the agonising pain that flooded across his chest as he left La Fere, as he left her there to die. He couldn’t escape the memories that followed him, the guilt that threatened to drown him, the ghosts that would forever haunt him.

And when he finally stopped for the night, when he looked down at his chest to see that stark purple bloom of aconite against alabaster skin, he knew that he would be forever marked by his sins.

~*~*~*~*~

He didn’t know how long it had been since they’d returned from their mission, since he’d been forced to provide them refuge at the estate. The days had all blurred together, an endless haze of drunkenness as bottle after bottle had passed his lips, blocking out the world and keeping the memories at bay.

But nothing he did could help him escape her.

Sometimes her swore he could still see her, standing in a corner of his room, ready to rip out his heart all over again and destroy everything he held dear. When he slept, she came to him in his dreams. He dreamed of fire and ash and blood and screams and she would always leave him with nothing. Nothing but guilt and pain.

If she wanted to avenge herself against him, he wouldn’t care. He deserved it. But his friends were innocent in this, and to think of them possibly being caught up in her revenge made his blood run cold. Porthos and Aramis and D’Artagnan, whose only crime was believing in him and calling him _friend._ Porthos and Aramis, whose gladioli he’d worn upon his chest for the past five years. And D’Artagnan…

D’Artagnan, who’d saved his life without even knowing who he was. D’Artagnan who lit up a room when he smiled, whose eyes sparkled like the stars when Athos paid him a compliment. D’Artagnan, who should have left him to die in the fire at La Fere, but chose instead to risk his own life to save a worthless, wretched soul.

He couldn’t carry any more death on his conscience; especially not theirs.

So he locked himself in his rooms and he drank. He drank and he slept and he tried to forget. He drank and he hurt and he waited to die.

It would be fitting, he’d often thought, if the symbol that she’d left marked upon his chest were to be what ended his lonely, tortured existence. Even in the dingy background of his chambers, the purple blooms that he always kept were an explosion of colour, calling out to him, tempting him.

Yet he could never bring himself to do it. He could never bring himself to consume the flower and allow it to consume him in return. Despite his hope that his friends would forget about him in time, he simply couldn’t bring himself to do something which would undoubtedly cause them pain.

So he drank and he tried to forget. Tried to forget _her_ , and tried to forget _them_. Tried to forget the way Porthos’ laughter vibrated through his entire body, to forget the way the corner of Aramis’ eyes crinkled when he smiled. Tried to forget the warmth that spread through him to his very core when D’Artagnan said his name.

He was here and he was alone and that was the way it was meant to be. It had been a mistake to let himself love, and to let people love him. He was poison; a rot that spread to everyone who dared get too close. He was alone and it was better this way.

~*~*~*~*~

Time was nothing and time was everything. Time was all he had. Time to think, or to dull his thoughts. To sleep, or to fight to stay awake. Time was limitless, unending, yet it had come to mean nothing. He couldn’t pinpoint day or night, couldn’t keep track of the hours as they passed by. He was stuck in this endless cycle; lonely, but unable to bear company; pained, but unable to rid himself of it. His heart yearned for his friends, but his mind knew that he was a danger to them. He longed to go to them, but longed to protect them from himself. His heart ached when he thought of them, but then he remembered his dreams of blood and screams and he pushed the thoughts away.

Life was nothing like the fairytales. There was no happy ever after awaiting him at the end of it all.

He was destined to be alone.

~*~*~*~*~

“Athos…?”

The voice was soft and warm and familiar, but something wasn’t quite right. It was worried? Concerned? But worries and concerns didn’t belong there. There should be happiness and passion and warmth and light, not sadness and confusion and hurt.

So Athos slowly opened his eyes, even if only to see the relief that the small action had instantly brought to normally soft features marred by a furrowed brow.

“Athos, we’ve been so worried…”

Athos waved a hand dismissively, trying to ignore the overwhelming guilt that tugged at his heart.

“No need to worry lad, I’m fine.”

“Athos, it’s been three days! No-one’s seen you, no-one’s heard from you! We were starting to think…”

The guilt that already weighed heavy upon his heart seemed to double in that instant. How could he have thought for even a moment that they wouldn’t have worried? Porthos and Aramis and D’Artagnan were loyal and brave and true and all the things that he would never deserve. It was an insult to their honour that he would ever expect them to leave him behind.

“I’m sorry…” he finally managed, his words a whisper through dry, wine-stained lips. His voice was hoarse, having been silent for three days – _had it really only been three days?_ – and roughened by the wine. “I needed some time to think…”

“And to drink, by the look of it,” D’Artagnan sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “Come on. There’s no use in wallowing here any longer. Let’s get you outside.”

Despite his words, D’Artagnan seemed to distract himself from that task by beginning to clear away the empty bottles that lay strewn across the floor. Athos watched him, noticing a slight droop to normally strong shoulders. Had his absence truly had such an effect on the young Gascon? He knew that the boy was loyal and devoted, but had he truly missed the extent of the trust that he’d put in him?

Before he was able to put a voice to his thoughts, D’Artagnan was kneeling by the side of his bed, coaxing him to sit and rest his feet on the icy floor. A bucket of water, a rag, and D’Artagnan, gently cleaning his face with such a tender touch that it brought a lump to his throat and a tear to his eye.

“Why are you doing this…?”

D’Artagnan glanced up to meet his eyes, and his smile was soft but it was _there_ and Athos felt his heart skip a beat.

“Because I care about you, Athos. I thought you were finally starting to believe that…”

Warm hands, roughened by years of farm labour, but gentle in their ministrations, moved to pull his shirt over his head, and it wasn’t until the material had been discarded that Athos remembered his mark of shame, now on full display for D’Artagnan to see. He heard the boy draw in a soft breath, hesitating for a moment before he gently, _oh so gently_ , began to cleanse the skin.

A heavy silence hung in the air and Athos hardly dared to breathe. He knew that an aconite mark was rare, and he knew the stigma that some people attached to it. _Such hatred speaks of a dark heart_ , his father had once said. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps his heart, his very soul, was as black as pitch, so consumed by demons that it could never be salvaged.

But then the scratch of the rag was gone, replaced by gentle fingers, warmth spreading across his skin where they touched. D’Artagnan was tracing the hooded petals as if they were beautiful, as if they didn’t change everything in their telling of who he really was inside.

And when D’Artagnan spoke, there was no fear or judgement or malice, merely a simple statement of fact;

“You must really hate her…”

“I thought I did…” Athos found himself whispering in reply. “Now I’m not so sure…”

Of course, he hated what she’d done, but did he truly hate _her_? For he had truly loved her once – _God, how he had loved her_ – but then everything had changed and his whole world had been turned upside down.

She’d tried to defend herself and he hadn’t listened. She’d claimed that she acted in self defence and he hadn’t believed her. She’d taken his brother away, and he’d _known_ Thomas. Thomas would never have hurt a fly, much less a woman.

Or could he have been wrong about that too?

So did he truly hate her? He honestly didn’t know. That line had been so blurred for so long, he’d forgotten how to tell the difference. When he’d seen her, he’d known that too much had happened, too much had passed between them, and time and pain and regret had washed away the love he’d once held in his heart for her.

When had it started to wash away the hate as well?

No matter what had happened back then, she was now a murderer and a spy and an enemy to all that he fought for. They were on opposing sides, and he knew that he could never trust her. His feelings towards her were certainly not complimentary in any way, but could he truly say that he hated her with such malice that it had caused the accursed bloom above his heart?

Or was he avoiding the reality – that the hate that ran so deep within his soul was directed towards someone else entirely?

“It wasn’t your fault, you know?”

The soft voice drew him out of the cacophony of his thoughts and grounded him back in reality. He was here, in his rooms, and D’Artagnan was knelt in front of him, gentle fingers now caressing his final heart bud which had still to bloom.

He gazed at the younger man, an eyebrow raised in puzzlement, unable to unjumble his thoughts enough to make sense of the quiet words that had permeated the stillness around them.

“What she did, what you had to do, none of it was your fault.”

Athos couldn’t help but laugh at that, an ugly sound with no mirth or joy. D’Artagnan looked up at him with a steely determination behind the soft hue of his eyes and Athos felt like his heart could melt.

“You are a good and honourable man, Athos. She committed a murder, no matter her reasons for it, and it was your duty to uphold the law upon your estate. You cannot keep blaming yourself for things you cannot change.”

Athos opened his mouth to reply, but found that no words came. He knew that D’Artagnan was right, he couldn’t change the past, but if only it was so easy to forget. If only it was so easy to escape the demons that plagued his dreams, to run so far that the memories and the ghosts could never find him. But that wasn’t possible, so he would just have to live with them, even if they were slowly killing him.

“Look at all the good you’ve done,” D’Artagnan continued. “The lives you’ve saved, the people you’ve helped. Think of the compassion you have for those in need. Think of the friends who you’ve opened your heart to. Think of the strength it took to love us and to let us love you after all that you have suffered. Think of how proudly Porthos and Aramis sit upon your heart, just as you sit upon theirs. Because you _are_ deserving of love, Athos, much as you refuse to admit it. You are a _good man_ , and it’s time to forgive yourself.”

Athos fell forward then, collapsing into D’Artagnan’s arms, allowing the pain and the guilt and the _hate_ to all come pouring out in a flood of tears and choking sobs. Strong arms held him tightly against a firm chest, a stark contrast to the soothing whispers against his hair and the gentle hands rubbing against his back. D’Artagnan was strength and softness all at once; he was warm and bright as the sun, yet gentle as the caress of the moon. He was a rock, a safe haven to protect Athos from the storm of his own heart, just as he was a gentle wave carrying him back to shore. But he was here and Athos felt safe in his arms, and for now, that would be enough.

~*~*~*~*~

When he awoke the next morning, it was to arms around him, still holding him tight and warm and safe. His slight stirring of movement upon waking was met by a slight tightening of the hold and a soft;

“Good morning. How are you feeling?”

Turning his head, he saw D’Artagnan, hair tousled, a sleepy, lopsided grin on his face, and he was beauty and light and Athos never wanted the moment to end. He knew then that he loved him - _God, how he loved him_ \- but he no longer believed in fairytales.

“I need to show you something.”

Athos almost whined as the warmth of the body behind his disappeared, leaving only a cold and empty space. But then D’Artagnan was kneeling by his side once more, an exact tableau of the night before, and he was coaxing Athos to sit. He took the older man’s hands in his, and Athos could see such a brightness in his eyes; an undeniable excitement that seemed to buzz through his very being.

“Athos, look… Look at your tattoo!”

Athos glanced down, and it took his breath away. It took him a moment to notice it, but once he did, it was all he could see.

A petal – a single, solitary petal – had fallen from the aconite bloom, drifting down to come to a rest upon his abdomen.

“I-I… What…?”

“Don’t you see?” D’Artagnan’s voice was excited, abuzz with his realisation, filled with hope and joy. “This was never about Milady, was it? It was you! And you’re starting to release that pain.”

Athos couldn’t speak. He’d never thought that he’d reach this moment; that he’d ever be able to even begin learning to forgive and to love and to put that cursed bloom to rest.

“We still have a long way to go,” D’Artagnan told him. “It won’t be easy. But I’ll be here with you every step of the way, Athos. You will find happiness again.”

And though every inch of him seemed to be screaming at him to remain sceptical, he couldn’t ignore the spark of hope that ignited within his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> The flowers relevant to this part of the fic and their symbolism, for anyone who's interested are;
> 
> Aconite - An enemy flower that signifies hatred  
> Hyacinth - It has been used here to represent Athos' brother. The red hyacinth is a symbol of sport and play, suggesting a playful and competitive relationship between the two. The purple hyacinth is a symbol of regret and of asking for forgiveness  
> Gladioli - A platonic soulmate flower that symbolises giving a part of your heart to the other person
> 
> The wilting of a flower and the shedding of its petals suggests the coming death of the person it represents, or the death of the relationship between you.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! It honestly means the world to me! I'm just so enamoured with this whole universe right now, so if there's anything you'd like to see, please let me know! I still have a few more stories up my sleeve to continue with it, but I'd love to be able to give people anything specific that they want to know!
> 
> I'm capitaineathos on tumblr, come and say hi! Prompts are always welcome and encouraged!
> 
> Many thanks to Eli and Ches for enabling this monstrosity! <3


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